


Testing the Limits

by alllthatglitters



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Desperation, Episode: s06e21 Temporary Duty, F/F, Holding, Implied Slash, Pre-Canon, Wetting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:54:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22811308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alllthatglitters/pseuds/alllthatglitters
Summary: There's a reason Margaret doesn't want Lorraine telling everyone about the microbiology exam.
Relationships: Lorraine Anderson/Margaret "Hot Lips" Houlihan
Kudos: 5





	Testing the Limits

Her focus should be on the exam, she thinks, a little nervously as she reads a question and then reads it again, not absorbing a word.

Instead, Margaret is thinking about the hard bulge in her belly pressed into the waistband of her skirt, tender and full and aching.

She doesn't remember the last time she relieved herself. It wasn't Gilhooley's, she thinks, crossing and uncrossing her legs under her desk.

The bathrooms there are vile and the safest place to relieve oneself without fear of disease is squatting over the floor drain.

She must've gone at home, she thinks, trying again to think of microbiology and not the gallons of fresh-processed urine her kidneys are dumping into her overfull bladder.

Before the interns bought her and Lorraine drinks.

_Fuck,_ she thinks. _Lorraine._

She glances across the aisle, looking for Lorraine, finding her in short order.

Lorraine is tomato-red, her leg jiggling under the desk, and while Margaret could probably get away with wetting (her bladder twinges at this and she nearly cries), Lorraine's pants are too light not to be noticed if she relieves herself.

Besides, this isn't Gilhooley’s and they're nursing students, _not_ drunks.

"Miss Houlihan!"

Margaret with twenty odd years of her father's training behind her, snaps to attention. "What?"

"Eyes on your own paper."

"Please, Professor Addison," she nearly begs. "May I be excused?"

"You've already been excused three times."

"But-"

"Finish the exam."

"Yes ma'am." She turns back to her paper, defeated, though she's starting to feel as though the slightest movement will burst her like a pin.

She's writing furiously now, the bulge in her skirt getting harder by the second, her body urging her to give in.

A quick glance at Lorraine suggests that she's in the same condition.

Margaret gasps a little, pressing her thighs together as she feels a few drops dribble into the front of her panties, a blissful heat of relief but-

_No!_ she thinks.

She cannot wet herself in front of so many people.

She can't.

She bullshits the rest of the exam, her hands too shaky to write neatly.

Another tiny jet of urine shoots out, dampening her groin, and she thinks she catches a stray scent, which makes _her_ face flame hot.

Lorraine's free hand is pressed between her thigh, her face flushed, her lower lip caught in her teeth as she squirms in place, and Margaret has to blink because even though Lorraine is desperate, she's also beautiful.

Margaret scrawls the last answer, barely legible, and is about to leap up when her bladder twinges, just once, and fear grips her.

She stands up, cautiously, which relieves some of the pressure of her waistband, but it's a loss because gravity is tugging on her bladder, urging it on, just one little drop and then another and it would be so easy to just lift her skirt here and _go._

Instead she walks, shuffles really, up to the examiner's table, getting there about the same time as Lorraine.

Margaret is shifting from foot to foot as the proctor asks her how her father is, and it doesn't matter if she's failed the exam, if she gets out the doors without pissing herself, she's passed with flying colors.

When the proctor finally lets them leave, all shaky and flushed, Margaret is sure she won't make it.

Every step seems to echo the pounding of her heart and the pounding of her bladder and Lorraine is practically hunched over, hands no longer pressed between her legs but she looks like she wishes it was.

The doors to the exam room slam shut behind them, and Margaret knows the nearest bathroom is two floors away and that she may as well just go sit on a stair and spread her legs, and she'd get about the same result.

"Margaret, wait," Lorraine manages, barely a whisper. "I can't hold it."

"Just a bit longer."

"No I can't- I can't, it hurts so _bad_ , Margaret."

"Alright, c'mon, Lorraine. The bathrooms are close."

Lorraine's hands are back pressed between her thighs, and Margaret swallows hard, imagining piss seeping through the light pants to warm Lorraine's hands.

(She always has cold fingers.)

And there's an ominous stillness in Margaret's bladder all of a sudden, and she knows: she's not making it any further like this.

But before she can do anything, she's distracted by a low moan from Lorraine.

"I can't I can't I can't," Lorraine is almost chanting. "Can't wait any longer."

"Lorraine not here-" Margaret tries but her mouth drops open as Lorraine squats on the ground, and with the most guttural moan Margaret has ever heard (wilder than any she pretends not to hear at night), Lorraine starts to piss.

There's a moment of utter stillness and then the loud _psssh_ of liquid into fabric, and darkness blooms across the front of Lorraine's pants and down the legs, as she pisses through them, moaning in relief.

And Margaret can only stare, because this might be the most erotic thing she's ever seen in her life.

There's a sharp smell in the hallway now as a golden puddle forms under Lorraine's compact frame, spurts splashing out messily, and it doesn't stop, her whole face slack with relief, her pants drenched, and Margaret is almost aroused enough to forget she needs to go too.

Margaret should be embarrassed for her friend, so publicly humiliated (though the hallway is empty as it's ever been), but she's jealous.

Lorraine's stream (if such a messy and violent spray can even be called a stream) comes to a faltering end, dripping from the drenched fabric into the wide puddle on the floor underneath her, and she sighs a little in relief.

And then she looks up at Margaret, and laughs, a little shakily. "Ought to see the look on your face."

Margaret's mouth is too dry to form an answer, but the same dryness can't be said for all of her.

And much as she'd like to beg Lorraine, to offer to peel her out of her soaked clothes and help her clean up, the arousal can't disguise one tiny little gigantic detail:

Margaret is in danger of wetting herself.

She doesn't even look around, as if she's borrowed Lorraine's liquid courage (currently spattered all over the tile floors), just spreads her legs so they're shoulder width apart, and lifts her skirt out of the way.

It takes a minute, her body convinced by twenty odd years of propriety and shame, but then the first little spurt leaks out into her panties, and her shoulders relax as she sighs, relieved.

Her eyes slide closed, so that she doesn't see, but she hears the piss, a steady stream, pouring into her panties before spattering out down her legs and then _plinking_ onto the tile, and she feels rapturous, her own moan slipping out like a spurt of piss.

She opens her eyes slowly, still blissed out with relief as jets of pee spurt at random from the edges of her panties (that is, what hasn't seeped up the back as damp heat against her ass), and pour down into the sizable puddle she's left.

She noticed, as she stares, that the floor must not be entirely level, because there are streaks of urine shooting off the main puddle, and she can't keep from grinning.

It slows, from a steady stream, to a trickle, to just a dribble that she has to force out (her belly aching pleasantly).

Her soaked panties are plastered against her vulva, and she feels all hot and itching for something, but also satisfied as she lets her skirt drop into place.

There's the heady smell of her piss, and there's Lorraine's, distinct, and all she can think, her body hot and tight with what must be embarrassment is that they smell good together.

She offers a shaky hand to Lorraine, who is still squatting on the floor, her face red.

"H-How bad?" Lorraine asks, but she doesn't meet Margaret's eye, her eyes lingering somewhere around Margaret's knees, the insides of which are splattered and glistening.

"Let's just say you're not getting any subtlety points," Margaret says.

Lorraine takes her hands, her fingers chilly (Margaret can't help a shiver) and then stands up.

It's clearly obvious what she's done- the entire crotch of her pants is soaked, little trails of dampness shooting off down her legs, and when she turns to stare at the puddle she's made, her backside is also saturated with wetness.

Margaret is staring, wide-eyed, dry-mouthed, her nipples hard inside her ink-stained bra, and the remnants of piss in her underwear are quickly being drenched by her arousal.

She can see the curve of Lorraine's ass through her soaked pants, can see where her panty line is, can imagine the golden drops falling off soft rounded curves-

"Margaret?" Lorraine asks, snapping her out of it.

"We should- we should-" Margaret stutters. "We should go."

"Huh," Lorraine says, tying her sweater around her waist to hide the worst of it as she steps over the puddle the two of them have made, and grins at Margaret, nonchalant "I thought we just did?"

**Author's Note:**

> what can i say, darlings, but I'm a pervert?  
> Hope you enjoyed x


End file.
